


Tease

by dormiensa



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bondlock, Fluff and Crack, John Watson is a Saint, M is Alive, M is Mummy Holmes, M/M, Profanity, Protective Mycroft, Q is a Holmes, Sherlock is a Brat, implicit sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:46:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2889029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormiensa/pseuds/dormiensa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q is having the worst morning of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tease

Quesfort awoke miserable and in tremendous discomfort bordering on pain.

 

The effort it took to peel open his eyes was rewarded by a million ninja-star blows to midbrain.  His head screamed.  He must’ve been _really_ drunk to forget to shut the curtains last night before bed.

 

Drunk. 

 

Quesfort groaned as bits of the evening flooded back.  He would needs devise subtle and devious vengeance on Miss Moneypenny for first spiking his Earl Grey and then the eggnog.  _Serves you right for ignoring me_ , the tiny, sober voice in his head said indignantly.  _Shut it.  And keep your voice down._  

 

Yes, he should’ve heeded his voice of reason.  Eve _never_ made him tea unless she wanted something, and that she got a minion to deliver said tea without following up with any request should’ve raised alarm bells of nuclear proportions.  But he’d been distracted with keeping 009 alive and bringing her safely home for another Christmas.  She even made it to the staff party, albeit two hours late.  And, of course, she’d arrived just in time to see Quesfort make a complete arse of himself. 

 

He groaned again.  It was the eggnog.  He’d always been a lightweight, and the eggnog on top of the poisoned Earl Grey had rendered him the horny sixteen-year-old he never remembered being.  _Your eyes are so blue, 007.  Like the pieces of sky Chicken Little was screaming about… no, no, it was the Ice Queen story, wasn’t it, that had the bits embed themselves into people’s eyes.  Or no, I should be referencing angels and moon-dust and golden starlight.  Yes.  That’s what Bond is made of.  I… I could drown in those starry eyes of yours._ He buried his face in his hands.

 

Good thing he hadn’t stayed much longer.  How he got home was unclear, although he was certain Eve had remained at the party.  Even in his haze of drunkenness, he’d registered the insufferable smirk on her face.  The witch.  It was a good thing she wasn’t actually adept at magic.  If she ever found out the vividly erotic dream he’d had last night involving a certain infamous double-oh…

 

Quesfort curled tighter into the fetal position.  Never mind Eve.  How was he to face MI-6 ever again?  Mummy’s disapproving looks surfaced.  He shuddered and winced.  Perhaps it was time to resurrect a certain Sherrinford Hope and disappear once again to Switzerland.

 

His morose and humiliating musings were cut short when he became aware of raised voices from his kitchen.  He immediately recognized Sherlock’s voice.  He sighed.  His brother must’ve been bored again and decided breaking into his flat would be a diversion.   And the calm but authoritative voice trying to quell the argument _had_ to belong to Dr. Watson.  Quesfort listened carefully to the third voice with mounting disbelief.  _What the fuck was_ Bond _doing in his flat?!_

 

Clutching his head and trying his hardest to recall his training so as to ignore the throbbing pain, Quesfort stumbled out of bed.  His sudden though rather noisy and clumsy appearance into the common area brought an abrupt cessation to the argument.  Three pairs of eyes stared at him.

 

After a quick sweep of him from head to toe, Sherlock smirked and then fixed Bond with The Mummy Eye.  “If you think I was an insufferable partner on that Sudan mission, you need only make my little brother slightly unhappy to see just how much more miserable I can make your life, dou-ble-oh-seven.”  His grin broadened as Bond’s knuckles clenched white.  “You don’t really think you’d score points with your Quartermaster if you bloodied his favourite brother’s face?”

 

Sherlock ignored Bond’s snarl and John Watson’s sigh, turning his attention on Quesfort.  “It’s a good thing you’ve always dressed like an old man.  Certainly hides all those love marks.”—Quesfort groaned as he realized he was starkers.—“And despite what Mycroft says, I’m sure Mummy will come around.  Her favourite son and her favourite agent shagging and completely violating the unspoken forbidden workplace romance policy.  Just one big, happy superspy family.  Although you may want to stop the earpiece flirting: she may insist on transcripts.”

 

A crash robbed Quesfort of the chance to make a scathing retort.  Bond was slumped against the kitchen counter, having knocked two mugs of tea to the floor.  Thankfully, Quesfort never cared for the cheap vessels; besides, his favourite Q10 mug had seen worse abuse and was still in one piece.  He made a mental note to have it thoroughly sterilized once he got to work.  And he would keep it locked in his desk drawer henceforth.

 

“Don’t worry, Bond, Mummy—I mean, M would gladly have fired me long ago,” he said soothingly to the still-wide-eyed-and-gaping Bond.  “She never approved of MI-6 hiring me, but the old Q liked me and proved to the Foreign Secretary that I was indispensable for his plans to ‘bring Q-branch into the 21st century’.  She’ll make sure no one _else_ —” He glared at his scoffing brother.  “—will ever find out we’re related.  And I wouldn’t worry too much about Sherlock, either.  He still can’t hack into Scotland Yard’s servers without my help.”

 

Sherlock scowled but then grinned again.  Quesfort observed him narrowly as he took out his phone.  “Well, then, brother mine, I’ll leave the interrogations to our power-mad elder brother, shall I?” 

 

Quesfort grabbed hold of the phone and stared, horror-struck, at the photograph of his sloshed self conversing with a frowning Mycroft while still draped over a blushing Bond.  The message below from Eve read: _Q just told Her Majesty’s Sceptre to piss off! Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on our favourite boffin. Lord knows he could do with an adopted older sister as well as an adopted older brother, much as you refute the term. You’re a sentimental sod, Home Secretary’s Bloodhound.  I know it’s not your thing, but doesn’t Bond look fetching in that shade of red?_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt: _Q gets absolutely and horrendously sloshed on spiked eggnog (courtesy of Eve), and he proceeds to tell Bond exactly how beautiful his blue, blue eyes look under the Christmas lights. That in and of itself is already adorable, but nobody could have predicted the blush that appears on the face of the infamous 007 at these words. (Later, Bond would blame the drink. Eve would call bullshit.) Q, meanwhile, is too busy cursing his existence and, most of all, his hangover._
> 
> Many thanks to the bondlock authors who have shared such lovely headcanons. Hope you don't mind me borrowing some of them to play with for a bit. This bondlock-verse is separate from my usual one, though I still retain certain elements from it.


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